


Our Happy Little Doll-House

by JinxxTheInsomniac



Category: Annabelle (2014), The Boy (2016 Bell), The Conjuring (Movies)
Genre: Demonic Cults, Demonic Possession, Disciples of the Ram, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Mental Instability, Other, Post The Boy, Stockholm Syndrome, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxxTheInsomniac/pseuds/JinxxTheInsomniac
Summary: After the events of the film "The Boy", The Heelshire Mansion is left to rot away, the townsfolk ignoring that something might be living within.Word gets out about the eerie palace until it reaches the ears of Russell Cunningham-- The Leader of the Cult 'Disciples of the Ram'-- and his girlfriend, Annabelle Higgins.  The demon-compelled couple, along with the droves following their example, pursue the biddings of their leader, and go to the rural town, and inevitably, to the Heelshire Mansion wherein the plan to dwell and prosper under the watchful gaze of the demon leading them.No one had expected there to be one surviving resident still lurking within the decrepit mansion; an isolated creature who doesn't care for uninvited guests.





	1. Wont You Come Out To Play?

                The night was just beginning to shroud the remaining daylight, which prompted the once crowded streets and alleys to quiet upon the night's ominous approach.

                Yet, it wasn’t the mythical deities or monsters of old which frightened these already timid folk, but rather the spirit-plagued house hiding just beyond a collection of unkempt forests which served to conceal and protect the rural village.  

 _'That place is wrought with Satan’s minions'_ , many professed on the fateful night wherein a young couple ran screaming from the establishment, doused in blood, and with no one having ever recalled seeing them before.  Unfortunately for the girl, who’d been so unjustly victimized by the house’s secret inhabitant already, would later be condemned to a mental institution for her preposterous claims of ‘Brahms in the walls’.  There was no other solution that these quiet farmers and shepherds could offer up as an alternative solution to the unhinged woman’s raving.  Some were even convinced that to put her in the Asylum was too good for her, that she was clearly a murderer who should’ve been thrown in prison for her unpredictable mannerisms. 

                And so, the young woman was subjected to an unholy array of medications to keep her sedated, which in turn, voided any and all significance in the claims she might’ve upheld.  After all, what legal standing does a mentally volatile woman have that could be taken seriously in a courtroom? 

                The man—Malcolm-- later died due to a TBI triggering his brain to hemorrhage and kill him at the hospital before he could offer any eligible defense on Greta and his behalf.  He would’ve been the only one qualified to convince the authorities that Greta was genuine in her outlandish statements.    

          Everyone had allowed themselves to believe once the intruders had been banished that all problems centered around the ominous-looking mansion would be ceased, and everything would resume as normal…

It wasn’t until the morbid gossip and campfire stories began to surface about The Heelshire’s former residence, which, to some, was regarded as yet another idle distraction to complicate the daily toils of the bustling townsfolk.    The actual events having been witnessed to by the few onlookers became muddled together with anonymous fictional elements, which then served to traumatize the listeners even more, and make it nearly impossible to pick the truth out from the over-embellished fabrications any longer.  Some were convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that the house was the lair of Satan himself, while others offered up the idea that the girl having been dragged off by police was a demon, herself, intent on condemning them all to Hell.  

Yet one tale resounded more often than the rest, and that was of the potential phantoms still wandering the mahogany corridors of Heelshire in search of their assailants.  It had gone undisturbed by the public ever since that dreadful night, the windows and doors now boarded up after the owners of the property were found roughly 3 hours’ drive from their former home, drowned and decayed to the point of disfigurement in Tweed River.  Although it wasn’t often that the aged couple would make the trip down to the rural village of Whalley from their majestic home, the townsfolk typically kept to themselves around them out of respect for the elderly couple still mourning the death of their only son. 

And so, such ministrations of respect for the dead would continue, no one willing to brave the trip through the overgrowth which’d imprisoned the rural mountain roadway.  The folk beliefs of the Whalley residents was what further grounded the impossibility for such a voyage to ever take place, and so, it never did.

No one was meant to know; no one would know.

 

But this would be the night which stood out from the rest. 

There was a new stream of faces in the lonely town, of whom were not at all the usual suspects who’d typically arrive to escape the daily toils of city life.  Rather, these were the shady folk that were brought into being by All-Hallows Eve stories and other such simple niceties.  Like wraiths, their eyes were hollow and downcast, and their lips were often curled into a disdainful snarl towards anyone who made the mistake of getting too close.  All were adorned in matching onyx garbs and had skin as pale as the moon on a cloudless night.  They were as the spawns of the grim reaper, many whispered.

Yet the townsfolk’s assumptions regarding these people’s purpose for arriving was not so far from the truth. The group of ghostly figures were the ambassadors of a cult known only by those who pursued it.  ‘The Disciples of the Ram’, consisted of a ragged band of followers, all equal in status.  One of the members was a schizophrenic, 32-year-old named Russell Cunningham, who’d been declared the ‘Speaking host’, for each of the nightly seances used to summon their Master. The only way to distinguish Russell from the rest of the disheveled crew was that he carried an unornamented staff ahead of him while he walked, the tip of the staff being ornamented by the skull of a raven etched with various runes and hieroglyphs.    

Russell’s girlfriend was his designated protector against any who wished her lover harm while he was acting as host for their Master, and in doing so, rendering himself completely dormant and vulnerable. 

They were possessive, abusive, and downright wicked to one another, but neither of them thought to leave the other, and in fact, were rarely out of sight from each other.  Equal amounts of indigo bruises and burns marred their alabaster flesh, but neither of them seemed to notice as they held one another protectively.  Between them, yet only having physical contact against Annabelle, hid a doll clad in a dirty white-lace gown and red ribbons.  The infant-sized thing had an aura about it, causing any who savored too close of a glance to suffer a painful migraine and potential nightmares that evening.  The stench of evil resounded from the harmless display until no one within the town’s proximity felt safe, even from behind locked doors. 

Many who scrutinized the Head Priest’s physical persona and gait would assume that he was a meager vagabond in search of his next meal.  What they wouldn’t see would be the ravenous look in his bloodshot eyes, the flinches in his walk if anyone moved a little too quickly around him, and his thick, greasy locks curled and twisted around the sleek slope of his forehead.

His girlfriend, Annabelle Higgins, was in a worser state.

She may have appeared as a typical church-goer, but she was as corrupt as they came.  It was she who had leaped on a cult-member after he’d accused their Master of being a mere story-book beastie brought to life by a pair of delusional children.  Unfortunately, for that cruel individual, he would not leave the assembly on his own that night and instead would be dragged out and buried in a nearby swamp.  The girl clutched a doll against her breast, as though it were an actual, living child rather than an inanimate object.  Anyone who attempted to admire the trinket received a harsh bout of slurred curses from the owner until either her voice became hoarse, or her egocentric boyfriend successfully managed to soothe the woman from her rabid onslaught. 

And the doll would watch with unblinking eyes, savoring every moment of fear-based impulse and response. 


	2. Like Specters in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a weird chapter... this is also 7am writing after a night of nonexistent slumber! :D

There was an old cemetery situated between two hills, the rusted iron gateway barely visible from the tendrils of ivy clinging to it. A neglected cobblestone pathway, inhabited only by the scattered shards of glass bottles and cigarette filters, wove through the weathered grave-plots but was almost entirely overgrown with sickly mushrooms and weeds. The grave-markers, sprayed with graffiti tags of all sizes, looked almost like tiny houses amidst a sea of yellow grass as they passed them by.

Led by Russell trailed the silent collective of cultists, their cloaks perfectly shrouding their identities until they were as lucid and indistinct as the night atmosphere in which they wandered.

Not a single word was uttered, nor a footstep taken too heavily from the assembly until a muffled cacophony could be heard in the near distance.  Russell had been told in a 'waking vision' that The Discipleship would meet their master in the gazebo of a graveyard, so that’s where they were headed. But to have their meeting place be disturbed by the likes of such drunken fools was entirely out of the question, prompting Russell to halt the procession behind him with a flourish of his staff.

Moments later and Annabelle was at his side, cowering so that she might pay homage to the individual that would soon play host to their otherworldly master.

“What is it?” She inquired, her voice barely above a whisper as she sneered ahead. Russell smirked devilishly.

“Drunken revelers. Get rid of them.”

Annabelle smiled mischievously at the command, ducking around her lover and striding eagerly towards the yellow firelight which undeniably marked her target’s location. With her cloak, she was perfectly invisible to the unruly crowd, prompting a Cheshire-like smile to stretch her lips. Clutching the doll tighter to herself, Annabelle rose, revealing her presence to the group in the gazebo.

At first, they were frightened, their faces paling at the ghostly cloak before them as it glowered down at them.

‘What the fuck?!' was howled at least a dozen times before Annabelle threw her hood off, revealing her ginger-braided lengths of hair and the rune painted across her forehead and left cheek.

All the horror and fear having encapsulated the group mere moments prior was immediately replaced with amusement, even intrigue. If she was scared, they couldn’t tell from the hollow glare she’d fixed them with.

“Who ordered the call girl?” One of them guffawed while two others stood slowly from the ground and approached her.

“Hey, sweetie, don’t be afraid, we ain’t gonna hurtcha…” They coaxed, as though they were speaking to a stray cat. That’s when one of them noticed the doll clutched to her hip.

“I like your dolly, little girl…” He reached out towards the porcelain figure, his gaze never leaving Annabelle’s. With each step closer to the lone girl, the less intimidated they became by her presence. The hissing-pop of another beer broke the near silence of the makeshift campsite, signaling the continuation of the merriment.

Annabelle swung out against the nearest drunk before her, carving a single red gash against his cheek and neck. In an instant he stumbled back, clutching his neck as though it’d been gouged open when in reality, it was barely more than a slight scratch.

The other thug to approach her gave a soft chuckle. “You’re a kinky girl, aren’t you? You gotta play nice or otherwise, you’ll get spanked…” A noticeable budge was already beginning to form in his jeans. Annabelle didn't take long to bestow another crimson streak along the scrawny drunkard’s forearm, causing him to look down nervously. Annabelle grinned satisfactorily at her victims.

“Bitch! What the hell was that for?” the second exclaimed as he ran his adjacent thumb against the welt now emerging. Storming towards the lone girl, he grabbed her wrist in an attempt to establish dominance, but not before the one having fallen back began to convulse.

“H-hey man… I don't feel so good…--” he mumbled, froth beginning to dribble down the front of his chin. With that, he doubled over, vomiting up blood and black chunks into the nearby brush. Rather than assist their companion, those who’d only witnessed the woman's defensive response began laughing hysterically.

“That's because you’re a goddamn lightweight like we fucking knew you'd be!” the largest proclaimed in between fits of wheezing laughter.  That's when he rose slowly from the lawn chair he’d been pleasantly sitting against, standing at a full 6’3 in height. Were Annabelle truly alone and without her master silently guiding her movements, she might've been intimidated.

“You can't just expect a slut to do what she does without proper motivation. Lemme show you how it's done, scrubs…”

As soon as he'd gotten within range of the sturdy woman, he raised his hand to her, clapping his palm against her cheek hard enough to knock her to the ground. At her stunned state, she accidentally dropped the childlike doll, it's porcelain smile mocking her as she let out a desperate sob before crawling towards it. In her state of panic, she hadn’t noticed her robes being torn away until her assailant had grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her back towards him. At this, he flipped her over on her back before sitting his impressive weight against her legs and hips.

“You like cock, little girl? Because now you're going to have to work to get it…”

“Brett’s not moving, Rich. I think she might’ve poisoned hi--…”

A violent retching noise interrupted his proclamation, and the bulbous creature now trapping Annabelle pivoted his head to scowl at his companion.

“I don't give a shit if he started growing two heads, asshole; you motherfuckers had your chance to have some fun and now it's my turn.”

He returned his gaze to the girl he now held hostage, having expected her to already be pleading for him to let her go. But instead, she was staring at him venomously as she clutched the unornamented charm wound around her neck.

“I call upon my Master, Bunzohr, god of sacrifice and decay, in my time of need.” She declared hoarsely, her eyes widening eerily so as she spoke the final words of her plea. “with the hope that he accepts the offerings I have provided.”

At this, before the would-be rapist could form a snarky remark in response to her near incoherent blathering, a low rumble now overwhelmed the earth beneath them, causing whoever was left unmarred to search fearfully for the origin of such a cacophony. Even Annabelle's captor seemed nervous until he locked gazes with the seemingly harmless girl pinned beneath him.

Her eyes had rolled completely into her head to the point of leaking tears of blood down the sides of her face. With that same horrifyingly unreadable gaze, her now lipless mouth opened to reveal a bulbous collection of giant, crimson centipedes which now hissed and chittered upon emerging from their host and breathing the pure air.  

White as a sheet, the drunkard struggled to his feet, howling fearfully as the centipedes, still visible against the cemetery’s yellowed brush, stalked him without cease, their wiry legs resounding against the soil they marched over. He tripped and collapsed over what he'd originally believed to be a crumbling gravestone, or perhaps even a moldering stump, But that was far from being the case.

The hollow, gray faces of his friends contrasted defiantly from the earth they’d fallen against, each one contorted into a horrified expression, as though about to scream, their colorless eyes now distant and empty.  As his eyes wandered down the deceased man's body, he was quick to notice that where he’d tripped mere seconds ago had, in fact, been his friend’s mummified corpse, and Like a collection of dry twigs wrapped in tissue paper, it’s sandpaper flesh had been ripped away in the exact shape of the last remaining survivor’s boot, completely exposing the now blackened and decayed organs within.

Sobbing like a child, the man looked up to the young woman with the red hair, almost relieved that she'd located her doll and now held it to her breast; perhaps now she’d let him go…

Wrong.

The centipedes had now crawled up from his hairy legs and belly to eventually gather at the base of his neck, their chittering now unbelievably loud.

“What kind of thing are you?” tears spilled down his face to mingle with the sweat already there. “ Oh, god, help me pleas—!!”

The centipedes crawled eagerly into the man's mouth, causing him to gag and sob even more loudly as they wormed down his throat with their razor-sharp appendages.

 Annabelle watched without remorse as the last man fell, leaving her in complete silence, as it should've been already.

“Well done, my dear…” an inhumane rasp whispered behind her as a palm squeezed against her shoulder. With all the excitement of a child about to receive a surprise, she screwed her eyes obediently shut and knelt on the ground alongside her fellow companions who'd already assumed an identical position on the ground, their hands raised in worship and praise. With a smile stretched across her pink lips, she began the declarations of their loyalty to the demon-god.

“Hail, Bunzohr, god of decay! Leader of the Ram! May your benevolence serve to free us from the chains of this world! May the night eterna forever overcome those who deny your power! May our service to you be satisfactory and successful! Our lives are yours!” Annabelle proclaimed as loudly as she could without interruption, one arm raised high overhead while the other clutched her doll.

“Hail, Bunzohr, hail!” the assembly replied with equal amounts of fervor into the cold darkness encompassing them. The being now in possession of Russell's body moved to stand before each of his disciples, his satisfaction resonating within their complacent minds.  Despite their eyes being closed, the cult-member's understanding and acceptance of there being a powerful deity before them felt akin to a case of someone living in a home with another and knowing that there's another in the same proximity despite there being no visual, sensory, or auditory proof at that place and time."

Russell's voice was completely identical in pitch and intensity to the deity possessing him, both voices resounding simultaneously as one:

“I come to you on these sacred grounds to warn you of the looming threat ahead. There will be many who despise you for your devotion to me; seeking out any means necessary to convince you of their faith-based servitude, and how much more worthy of your devotion He is, than I. But I tell you this; that the heavenly creator they worship has not blessed His followers with His presence or protection yet he is revered as though He physically stands beside them. Here, I stand before you, furthering my existence to those who might be reluctant to accept me. Why does that make Him the better choice?" 

Soft murmurs resounded in agreeance to their leader's declarations. 

“... That God has killed more times than can be counted or recorded; He has used his divine capabilities to destroy what He's created as soon as He decided to hold them accountable for the ideologies and mentalities that He bestowed them! A flood encompassed the earth at one point- killing everything and everyone except for the one family whom He decided were justified a second chance.

"Infants, expectant mothers, and the elderly were allowed to drown at the hand of this supposedly merciful deity, and He ignored their frantic pleas. Armies of men serving their monarch have been entirely obliterated by holy intervention simply for protecting their homes and lordship! Even the offspring of His favored, who knew nothing of sin or deception, were slaughtered without mercy while He passively watched, clearly believing that those He has frequently proclaimed to be in His own image, and thereby His children, were unworthy of life and existence.

“He has allowed the torture, rape, and murder of millions of His followers, refusing to intervene even as they haplessly prayed to Him for His aid. All this, and still more, and He remains to have billions of followers submitting themselves to Him simply because they refuse to acknowledge the true negligence He employs. He may have provided His followers with a locked door to convince them of his protection, but He has also secretly bestowed a key to all those who oppose Him and his followers, allowing for violence and destruction to endure.

“I stand before you now, protecting my own against outside forces that intend to take what isn't theirs. I did not simply watch Annabelle be violated by those who had threatened her, but instead provided her with a means of protection against them upon her request…”

“Thank you, my Lord!” Annabelle cried with sincerity.

Bunzohr continued, though resonated great joy in Annabelle's gratitude. “I have shielded Nolan from being robbed of his earthly treasures, granting him what was required to defend himself…”

“Bunzohr be praised!” was Nolan's reply.

“… I have even provided shelter for those who follow me without reserve, which is why I have brought you here.

“There is a mansion less than a mile from where you stand now; it remains abandoned except for one who does not belong there. As I have always done, I will offer my strength to see to your safety, and you will prosper there without ridicule or hatred of the outside world.”

All present in the ancient cemetery eagerly raised their faces heavenward, their eyes still clenched shut as they simultaneously proclaimed their thanks:

“Bunzohr be praised! Praised be Bunzohr!”

Pleasure at their unrestrained worship resonated from Bunzohr to his adherents.

After awhile, silence reclaimed the area, which was only broken by the demon-god's rasping voice which continued to overlap Russell’s.

“My presence here draws to a close, my children, I will return soon…”

A harsh rustling of the nearby foliage despite there being no wind signaled the departure of their patron and that their sight could be restored once more.

Annabelle lunged forward as Russell collapsed from the unrestrained demands expected of his role as their ruler's human-host. Cloaks were removed and laid out against the overgrowth of grass and moss while a couple of others dedicated a few moments to pick the shards of glass from their kneecaps which they'd unintentionally fallen upon.

“Milady Annabelle,” a cultist by the name of Aiden inquired meekly. Annabelle turned her face to the younger disciple. “Myself and milady-Taylor have lain out yours and Sire-Russell's cloaks to sleep on.”

Annabelle offered a curt smile and nodded, “I thank you, Sire-Aiden. We’ll be along shortly.”

With that, she jostled Russell gently until his eyes eventually opened a crevice. “Come on; up.”

Russell complied, though with struggle. His legs wobbled and he had to use Annabelle as a crutch to prevent from collapsing again. Aiden emerged not long after, assisting Annabelle in the grueling task of dragging the bedraggled creature to his temporary bed.

“We’ll be in a real bed by tomorrow night, my love,” Annabelle whispered with a pleased grin. Russell's only response was a smile, but that was enough. He was gently laid on the cushy moss beneath his cloak and it wasn't long before he was snoring softly once more.

And as the night dwindled on with its forest inhabitants nonchalantly ignoring the collective of humans now resting there, there was blessed solace where there hadn't been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably noticed two things upon reading this chapter;  
> One, I uppercase the references to God, and that's because I'm a practicing Christian (I say practicing because I am doing what I can to be a good person, but I'm just not good at it. Hehe)  
> Two, I have studied about how cults are made;  
> To summarize, a cult-leader has to have an inarguable idea regarding a popular deity (usually the Christian God) and then pretty much reshape biblical verses to suit their self-proclaimed "truths". Eventually you, as a cult leader, eventually just use manipulation and deception to coerce your followers to do as you say. Basically, you have to be a sociopath, i guess. This was how Charles Manson was able to create his following which he referred to as "family". 
> 
> Anywhoosles, I highly recommend you watch any documentary on cults on youtube; Rob Dyke is among my favorites when it comes to a deep, leathery voice telling you intriguing facts about the damaged psychology of people :) 
> 
> Enjoy!


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